Then she was out the door again, streaking down the hall, her eyes ablaze with emerald fire. Beldyn was out there somewhere. She would find him.

Tavarre’s horn carried beyond Govinna as well as within. Its blare echoed among the hills, where the second and fourth Dromas of the imperial army waited. They had halted a mile south of the city, standing ready, weapons and shields in hand. Torches flickered among their ranks, but for the most part they carried no lights. They needed none to see their goal. Even in the dark night, there was no mistaking Govinna’s towering walls.

The Scatas had little in the way of siege equipment, but what they had was menacing. Dozens of scaling ladders lay on the ground, and at the rear was their great battering ram, a tree trunk three times as wide as a man was tall, hewn from a great ironwood tree. A massive, bronze head in the shape of a clenched fist covered its end, gleaming in the stars’ glow.

Standing near the ram with his officers, Lord Holger glanced up at the trumpet’s blare. His face tightened into a scowl. He’d just been considering sending a man forward to request a parley before the battle was joined. The borderfolk didn’t seem keen on giving him that chance, though. Already he could see swarms of them, lit by blazing braziers, thick atop the curtain wall.

“I don’t believe it,” said Sir Utgar, standing near Holger’s right hand. “They think they can fight us? Are they fools?”

Several other men chuckled, but Holger shook his head. “Worse,” he said. “They have nothing to lose. Loren, my shield.”

The knights exchanged looks as his squire hurried forward. Holger Windsound never wore his shield unless a fight was imminent. He held still as Loren buckled the massive, circular targe to his arm, then reached across his body to rattle his sword in its scabbard.

“What are your orders, milord?” Utgar asked.

Holger drew a deep breath. The freezing air stung his nostrils but kept him alert. He signed the triangle and Kiri-Jolith’s horns, then drew his blade, holding it high.

“Full attack,” he said. “Let’s end this quickly.”

Runners dashed off down the ranks, shouting the order. In reply, the army’s falcon and triangle banners lifted high, and the war drums roared, booming for all to hear. Bellowing in reply, the Scatas raised their swords and spears and began to march, their blue cloaks like pools of ink in the night. Among them, the white and gold robes of clerics flashed, mimicking the stars above.

Holger watched them go while his officers dispersed. Loren brought him his percheron, which blew out its lips at the prospect of battle. Taking the reins, the old Knight swung up into the saddle, spurred his steed, and led his men to war.

Tavarre stood among Govinna’s remaining defenders, glowering as the Scatas started forward. Down the wall, a few more men threw down their weapons and ran-but only a few. The rest stared as the soldiers advanced, as inexorable as a flood. There seemed to be no end of them.

Grimacing, Tavarre sounded the horn again. It was done. The soldiers would take the wall, break the gates. He would die here with his men, and all he had wrought, everything he’d done since his beloved Ailinn died, would come to nothing. He laughed softly to himself-he’d been foolish to think he could defy the Kingpriest.

Bloody well better take a few with me then, he thought. He brought his horn to his lips, letting fly a third ringing blast The men and women atop the wall echoed it, their weapons punching the air.

“For the Lightbringer!” they cried.

The Scatas moved too quickly and too slowly all at once. Marching at such a deliberate pace, they seemed to take forever to cross the last mile to the city, but at the same time Tavarre could scarcely believe it when his archers began to loose their arrows, which flew and fell among the advancing soldiers.

The footmen lost many to that first volley, more than the horsemen had in the first sortie. Packed in close formation, the Scatas had little room to evade the barrage, and the first ranks dropped in waves, leaving those behind to stumble over their bodies. A few raised their shields in time, drawing curses from the men on the wall. Tavarre got one of them with a shot from his crossbow, piercing him through the knee with a steel quarrel. The man staggered and fell. Tavarre let out a whoop, pulling back his string to reload.

Once again, the tenor of the battle changed as the Scatas returned fire. White-fletched arrows peppered the battlements, and Govinna’s defenders began to fall. Beside Tavarre, a woman screamed and sprawled across a merlon as an arrow sliced open her neck. Her blood spattered the baron, but he didn’t even bother to wipe it from his face as he aimed and fired again and again. Another man, just down the wall, spun in place, then fell from the battlements, two shafts lodged in his breast.

So it went, for what seemed like hours, men and women falling on either side, some dead as soon as they hit the ground, others thrashing for a time before falling still or trying to drag themselves away. Tavarre emptied a case of quarrels and yelled for more. Elsewhere along the wall, the archers grabbed enemy arrows and fired them back. It made no difference, however, how many the borderfolk slew. For every soldier who fell, a dozen or more marched behind. They pushed forward relentlessly, stepping over their dead, weathering stones and boiling water as well as the constant rain of arrows.

Now the ladders came, as Tavarre knew they would, pushing forward through the masses of imperial soldiers, their bearers seeking patches of wall to assail. A deep rumble shook the earth, and the enormous ram followed, pushed by fifty men as it made its slow, creaking way toward city’s proud gates.

“Aim for them!” Tavarre barked, waving at the Scatas driving the ram. “The ones with the ladders too! Slow them down!”

The battle’s noise was so fierce that only a handful of borderfolk heard him, but his orders spread nonetheless, from one man to his neighbor, on down the line. The ram quickly shuddered to a halt as half the men pushing it fell, pierced by bowshot and crushed by thrown stones. The same happened to most of the ladder-bearers, but not all-here and there, along the wall’s length, ladders swung upward to thump against the battlements. Soldiers scrambled up, two or three rungs at a time.

Govinna’s defenders acted quickly, grabbing up long-handled military forks and hurrying across the battlements. Thrusting hard, they shoved the ladders back, sending them toppling over. The climbing men screamed as they plummeted, then fell sharply silent as they crashed into the ground.

Victory cries rang out across the wall, but Tavarre didn’t join in. Already, more Scatas were picking up the ladders, and the ram lurched forward again. More arrows and quarrels poured down, and for a second time the attack stopped. The ladders rose and fell again, a second time, a third, but the soldiers kept coming, picking them up and planting them anew in the blood-soaked ground.

Out of bolts again, Tavarre threw away his crossbow and grabbed up a fork. Below, the ram was moving yet again, on toward the city. This time, though, it refused to stop, and the city’s defenders gritted their teeth as it rumbled up to the gatehouse. The gleaming, fist-shaped head smashed into the gates.

Tavarre winced, feeling the crunch of the impact beneath his feet, and watched as the Scatas backed the ram away again, ducking beneath the continuing deluge of arrows, then surged forward another time, smashing the great tree into the city’s doors. Tavarre shut his eyes, a cold feeling running through him as he wondered if he’d just heard splintering. Another few blows like that, and legendary or not, the gates would come down. After that…